The Lost Isle ... of Nantucket

ANYWHERE

The call to adventure comes in many forms, as it does tonight. When the night is deep and the common man goes to sleep, the telltale signs of the paranormal manifests itself in blinking lights, electronics going on the fritz, and a sudden chill from no readily apparent source envelops the room. Perhaps in the back of the mind, a spidery piano chord. Then it comes, the letter of notice in the yellowish-brown letter envelope, slid under the doorway, whether to the house, the toilet stall, even the seediest motel. The letter addressed to the recipient and signed by the four I’s of the Institute. The content of the letter meanwhile, was in a clearly older, type-written font.

Dear Associate,

Due to the pressing rise of Anomalous Events throughout the globe, an invitation is offered to you as Temporary Associate Status of the Iskatonic International Institute of Inquiry. This letter contains psycho-mnemonic effect that will instantaneously fill you in on the goals of the Institute.

The situation in brief: roughly 40 days ago, The NYPD was notified of a missing persons case for four minors and their dog who had went to Nantucket, which is considered to be within the Boston-Eugenia Anomalous Zone. 30 days ago, The Coast Guard lost contact with the rescue team sent to locate them; 14 days ago, the Institute had sent in an investigative team and also did not return. The worst must be assumed, and now we require agents of extraordinary capabilities to investigate the missing teams.

Due to the scarcity of transport resources, and the unwillingness of most to travel within the Anomalous Zone, the Institute has acquired the cooperation of a fishing vessel, the ‘Marlene’, which docks at Greenport, Long Island. Identify yourself to the captain, one Mr. William James, and fellow associates with the pass phrase, ‘Tis a fine ship, she is’. Once assembled, Mr. William James shall transport you to Nantucket.

God speed, Associate.

LONG ISLAND

The sun was low in the sky, barely illuminating through the gray overcast. As evening rolled in, the many strange lights of the Boston-Eugenia zone made for a most eerie, otherworldly sight, as reality strained to contain its ever-expanding borders. The small wooden docks were being pummeled by the waves, as the rather old and highly questionable ‘Marlene’ bobbed up and down in the water. The street lights were just coming online, but the Marlene was lit by the dull yellow light of archaic oil lamps, and the hunched form of an old, wizened man in yellow coat making sailing preparations was all that stood out in the bleak gray.

“…Avast ye, landlubber. Who goes there, says I?” He mutters in a gravely, old sea dog of a voice.

It had been the usual night of wandering from alley to alley while using his personal radio to listen to the police scanner. One never knew when those poor bastards would stumble across something out of their league. The Artificer suddenly stops in his tracks, a tingle going up his spine as he hears the faintest tap of a footstep. He instantly spins about to face the direction of the noise. By that point, whoever he had turned to face had already run off. He could see the man sprinting down the street. He was just about to make pursuit when he saw it on the ground. A letter with the words 'Mauled Mask' written on the front.

He crouches down to pick up the letter and carefully tear it open. The eyes under that mask narrow as he begins scanning over the words. Then it happens. A surge of info flows into his mind, causing a hiss of pain as he holds his head, stumbling around the alley a bit. To most, that information would have entered their mind unimpeded. To him, with the training he had gone through, mental resistance to outside influences was instinctual. Once the flow of information passes, an irritated wheeze can be heard from under the mask as he crouches down once again to pick up the letter. "Fucking port cities..." He stares at the letter again ponderously. He'd heard about The Institute. With what his night job was, it was only a matter of time before he ended up dealing with them. He just....didn't expect it to be so sudden. He honestly hoped it would never happen. Considering the kinds fo entities he dealt in, the fact that they were calling him was....really bad. Artificer places the letter in his coat with a sigh, and begins making his way towards home with hurried steps. It would be a long few days of preparing for the trip and sitting on planes. Whatever the Insitute was pulling him into, he hoped it was important.

Eventually, the Artificer found himself standing before a run down dock with a questionable ship at the end of it. He hoped it was more durable than it looked. Upon the captain calling out to him, he steps out of the shadows, his silver colored mask shining in the light slightly. "I'm the Artific-" He sighs, resigning himself to using the name earned by his reputation. One earned by the claw marks across the front of his mask. "I'm the Mauled Mask. I believe our mutual benefactor wanted you to take me across the waters?" He looks around, eyes narrowed under his mask. "Will there be anyone else joining us? Or Am I doing this job alone?"

In a city that never slept, Montessa found herself a chronic insomniac. New York, despite its recent fall and reconstruction, was still like that big shiny apple a body could worm its way into. There was too much invested there to let it truly die, and so would opportunities ever flock to it.  

Yet it had been a particularly energetic night when a strange letter was left on her doorstep. She'd been tripping pretty high on something after taking a rather good looking boy home and hadn't noticed the prissily folded letter on her stoop until 4 hours of sleep and three cups of coffee had passed. Monte has glared blurrily down at the letter.  She picked it up and, assuming it to be a bill or message from her landlord, promptly crumbled it up and tossed it in the trash.  

Later that night after the fight with that magic shark, Monte had come home and taken off her coat, only to find the letter sitting on her countertop. She opened it and read only two lines before snorting and tearing it up, then used the pieces to line her hamster cage.

By that morning, her hamster had escaped and the letter was sitting primly on the pillow next to her. Thoroughly pissed now, Monte took the letter and chucked it out of her 6th story window.

...only for that self-same letter to fly in a few moments later and slap her in the face.  

"Ok, fine!  I'll read it!"

—

The cab ride had been boring as hell. Unlike what you'd typically think of cab drivers, the guy conveying her to her destination had no interesting stories. He'd been out of the town when the city was partially destroyed, and seemed to be almost fetishistic about avoiding anything interesting that happened around him.  

To spice up his life, Monte had offered to do a number of weird or perverted things just to get a rise out of him. The cabbie merely stared at her with the patient apathy of a person who had been over that particular brand of shit years ago.  

Understanding at last that she had met her match, Montessa paid her fair and tipped generously, if nothing else than to ward off the eldritch being of elemental tedium that she had been afflicted with.  She stood on the Long Island pier and took a deep breath of the salty sea air, only to immediately light a cigarette. She strolled down the boardwalk, feeling downright classy. Very noir.  All she needed now was a fedora and a classy dame she could make inappropriate comments to.

And there was her dame in question. Her purple eyes lit up with feline mischief when she saw poor Arty-farty looking all lost and alone. She snuck up on the hero, her smile as big as the whole ocean. "ARTY!" She exclaimed, as if they were long lost siblings.  "I haven't seen you in a dog's age.  How's it hanging?"

7:45pm

The old scatterbrained sailor walked with a limp, likely from old age and arthritis, as he approached ‘Mauled Mask’. He approached close enough to show him the unkempt beard, and the strong smell of alcohol upon his breath. “An old sea dog, I may be, but I see… ye be them queer folk, with the unchristian trickery. Aye, there be other queer folks, wishing passage upon mine ship. Now thee maketh haste to Nantucket, where whatever work o’ the devil that took Boston hath taken over that place s’well. Marlene be ready to depart by the eighth bell, our voyage, Neptune willing, concludes before the ninth, in time to fill our bellies with nourishment.”

When Montessa arrived, she was not spared the performance of this character. “Aye, now they send a harlot to sail upon Marlene.” For someone who thought her a harlot, William sure took a long time to look at her. “But sailor’s medicine I’ve great need, so to Nantucket spirit thee, I shall. On my word, ‘tis I swear.”

Of course, as the evening rolled on, the sky above rumbled, and streaks of lightning flashed across the sky. Thunder rolled with a mighty bass across the water. It started to rain hard, bringing a sudden chill. That was when a stretch limo rolled in, dropping off two figures. A tall Asian woman with a strange, mechanical prosthetic eye, and wearing a thick coat. She carries a large umbrella, for herself and her companion, a shorter, not so athletic young man in a vest and fedora, carrying two suitcases and a backpack. He seemed to struggle with his luggage.
The unencumbered lady walked down the dock and addressed William directly. “Good evening captain. We are assembled I see. And a fine ship we sail on tonight.” Ellen said with a rather crestfallen sarcasm at the sight of the ship, but wanting to stick to protocol and utter the pass phrase.

“Blast, Jupiter doth picked a unwell time to relieve himself; our fortunes already be turning! Queer Harlots and nancy boys, by Neptune’s beard, what sin of my past demands this reckoning. All aboard then, for the swifter our journey, the swifter we shall part. All aboard thas’ comin’ aboard!” William decided to announce loudly, despite all his passengers being within 5 feet of him. He hobbled onto his ship, which was now swaying with the agitated waves.

“Roger, take our gear and stow it in a locker.” Ellen commanded her companion, who walked like a penguin, carrying so many items.

“Y-Yes ma’am. Good evening, by the way. It’s good to be working with you all.” He answered then politely addressed the group, before proceeding aboard.

“I am Ellen Nakamura, a member of the Institute. My assistant is Roger Macy, a linguist and researcher. I’m sure you have questions; we know precious little, but, that’s the reason for this undertaking. Come, let’s get acquainted more onboard if we’re going to work this case.”

Ellen would converse as best she could despite the storm, and her expectations, low as they were, were dashed further upon trudging through the narrow, dimly lit halls to their quarters. The crew quarters, or rather, quarter, was a single cramped room with bunkbeds dominating two walls, the entrance lockers a third and a table and small, blurry porthole and table a fourth. The center of the room was a single small round table bolted to the floor, with four seats equally treated. The steel floor was littered with empty bottles, discarded fast food cartons, and plastic utensils. Despite Roger's presence in the room, a couple of rodents were chewing on a half eaten piece of fish in the corner, and the room smelled strongly of droppings, tobacco and alcohol. The only thing of worth in this rat infested hole was a half full bottle of Johnny Walker hidden away in a cabinet.

Roger was busy securing their gear to a pipe, since the lockers were filled up with coats and fishing nets. “Oh, hello, It’s… a bit filthy down here, maybe on deck is a better place to while away the trip?”